How often do I hide in thick layers
of parading masks-- afraid to reveal
the hardened arrogance which denies
a vanity ruled by a sordid season -
those matriarchal flaws , cracks from
transgressions, and lesions of anger
over time's unhealed grievances.
I smile with resistance existing
through fragile acquaintances
to escape light's awakening
that could lead me out of life's pretenses.
So I hover drearily on bloodied nights
and run into the woods searching
for sages even wise thieves ,
who could offer me refuge
from this marrow sinking into
a litany of dirges, of love's requiem:
i must have grown dumb; I cannot
hear these hibuscus hymns...not even
tumbles of the song my soul never
seeks could assuage all my snuffed evenings...
How this darkened mind lies
upon his leaving... still,
vagrant psalms from a bitter farewell
bang like a shrieking gong...without end
These days once treasured
monuments are let
to weather away
or are bullied
and bulldozed to rubble.
Others have small cracks
picked at by compulsive minds
bent on excavating small lesions
into large, gaping wounds.
We are left with sad avenues
lined with inflated puppets
convulsing in weird gyrations
by belly fulls of blown air,
each with a power cord
stuck up you know where.
I’ve been seein u in the stars lately
ur eyes, ur pupils dark as night baby
darn lashes whipping lesions o’ me
giggle pretty like the whole city
Baby you’re my life, my goal
Ball and chain, no parole
You, you’re my life and soul
‘til we’re dust and mold
Promise I’ll treat u well
Won’t let you fell
Through all of hell
Without a yell.
baby
Love what is love when you’re not here with with me,
Still it grows and it grows so remarkably
And the taste of your lips, the curiosity
Gets a hold of me… and honestly?
Confession,
Baby you’re my most prized possession
Overseas, long term boy obsession
I think Overall pretty great selection
You’re worth gold and silver mountains
I’ll work hard for u, sweat in fountains
Cuz baby, now and the state we were found in?
We’ve come long, despite surroundings
Soon we’ll have each other,
More than words but arms, rather
And life will have a lot more color,
When i’m no longer your long distance lover.
In these times
the prophetic leaks out
of lesions in language -
sacred scripts fester
promises of slaughter
by revengeful gods
born out of the fury
of our own inner dark.
The same has hovered
over bloody battlefields
for millennia, the dead
wrapped in the flags
of countless faiths.
Meanwhile,
the Universe looks on
finding nothing of itself
in such weaponized deity.
It has a list of more
important things to do.
See how frozen rice brings gaiety
from the weight of a half-starved life ,
palms etching the barbs of terrorism;
Already the villainous hours smell of puss,
ripe lesions , and unbearable heat :
dried bones snapping from gun-barrels
of greedy, power- laden pillagers --
the hissing growl of wars
rake bloody sky from its quiet days .
So chidren , listen well...build
A new earth blessed with peaceful hearth
and fresh broth,
clutch all neighborly moments endeared,
whispering prayers for safe glide
soothing night's guardianship ... and as
You lay on pure lights from angels' wings,
live each hour with grace of integrity
to hold not a chaos brimming with envy;
as Spirit renews a world lulled by love,
Mid Life Crisis
Everything changed over-night.
Paralyzed, by blind sight.
Concerned toward future health.
Phase changing, overwhelmed.
Future, not knowing.
Mid Life crisis, unease.
Trees and birds don’t complain.
Live day by day.
A new bold direction.
Be calm and collective.
Just one day at a time.
Count your blessings.
Hinder to judgment, always worried.
Reflect on life lesions through memories.
At ease is the remedy.
Sound of the pouring rain is calming.
Don’t ponder over your age.
Hold on to what you believe in.
New moon vanishes into a blush of russet
where humid air twirls along with clouds,
and stars burst…
flickering above hilltops
to cast my anguish across the sky:
How wanton gulls crisscross on a flight;
their shrill rattling an echo that my heart pales
from an image of first passion’s gaieties
outlined by his maze of treachery, of ruse :
Forgetting not my lesions from one August night,
tears split forth in torment
without measure:
Naïve at eighteen then, I drank yesteryear’s pain
hoping fate could heal me from such drilling spin...
then to wake up fed with grace
to echo new morn's canticle of beginnings
1st place.
Chalk
White powder rock.
Just 45 minutes on the clock.
Teacher is the tool.
The chalk is the writer.
Many lesions, many words.
White dust across the black board.
Erase to smudge.
Chalk re-writes discipline.
Learn as much as you can.
Let poetry begin.
Refining thoughts.
Lost time writing in cursive.
White limestone,
To a soft smoked poem
What of...A Pearl? 5-30-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pearl
Born from irritation
Errant seed, like a pebble in a sandal,
Rubbing raw the soft heart in bruises
Lustrous armor built around crumbs of discontent -
A resume of overcoming ravished wounds
From a jagged invasion to round perfection.
A sly annoyance, nurtured,
Grows into heroic neon hues
Of black or white, cream, gold or pink
Inside darkness, in stillness’ mystery,
Deep within oceanic birthing swells
A metamorphosis in the hands of grace.
Through the stony crucibles’ selfless sacrifice
Layers of harmony built from an unreachable itch
Step out into tranquility, an opalescent retort,
From lesions to beauty cultured from injury
Flawless orbs revel in firstborn revelation
To decorate innocence reborn.
cancer
they said the lesions proved
so I decided to
"rage
against the dying
of the light" *
climb mountains
swim rivers
pedal dirt roads
until...
...it went away
or never was...
...nevertheless
since then
when I forget
stumble
or fall
or just sense life dimming
I remind myself
to rage
* "Do not go gentle into that good night" -Dylan Thomas
Sunrise begins to lift a faint
blush of red behind the city skyline.
The day crawls out from under
it's covers and starts to reclaim
the dark, evaporating dreams,
piecing together memories,
anchoring the self in time.
Yet something is lost,
a word or a sentence misplaced
in translation, the omission
of a line of code in a cipher
used to unlock meaning.
That vast mechanism slowly grinds
through the gears and starts
to move, paving over lesions
with noise.
You try and hang on
but each day takes you further
away from what was left behind,
now no more than a dull, persistent
longing pitted nameless
in your waking hours
or haunting the shadows
of your troubled sleep.
You realize that if it weren't
for these thin connections
stretched like paper streamers
across time, you could easily be
someone else.
* Just a note to mention that I posted a blog regarding the final results of testing for toxins from the Ohio Train Derailment that I have been writing about.
They found numerous chemicals including up to 20 dioxins in the soil here and matches to the chemicals that were on the train in the Ohio Derailment. More analysis is being done before it may be included in their news updates on the news.
I knew it had sickened me here with the snow March 1st and all the wildlife changes etc, but the amount of chemicals is shocking.
A lot to figure out now. Dioxins are the worst you can find and cannot be broken down or removed. My old realtor says the property cannot be sold as usual due to all the serious toxins.
The phenol benzene that was detected on my tree also causes stomach and esophagus issues, low red cell count, all that I have now.
The dioxins cause skin lesions and I am dealing with those with infection now too. The health issues go fast and what is happening in nature with the trees lately is so fast too.
I am working hard at lots of leads for this situation. Thank you to those bearing with it and supporting my poetry even when my muse is gone.
I have a disguise
It keeps me safe from lesions
They look at my mask
The mask is gilded
Few will ask what's underneath
They look at my shoes
My shoes they are plain
Noone knows where I have walked
They look at my eyes
My eyes they look back
Opaque, smeared and inconstant
They ask me to speak
I open my mouth
And impart all my wisdom
They nod and depart
I drop my disguise
Sigh and collapse with relief
Tomorrow can wait
I gather in the scarred
and broken forms,
the lipped imperfections
that score the wind
to give voice to an evening.
I see through the lesions
that open to a stillness
into which the universe
whispers its unfolding.
I feel the awe,
the sheer enormity
that confronts the senses
as all that is
opens into endlessness,
the mind wilting
at its door,
leaving only these hands
to shape offerings which,
like shells held to an ear,
echo only the faint murmurs
of what cannot
be contained.
A chorus
of raw throats
rasp out warnings
then quieten, leaving
an edgy silence twitching
on the lips of a morning
or riding the ticker
moving across the bottom
of a television screen.
Something isn't right.
There's an unease
that seems to be
leaking out of lesions
in the carnage to come,
a slow festering
as if all life was waiting
for a finger
to squeeze the trigger
of a loaded gun.
And yet
good people
go about their lives
as they normally do,
saying their prayers,
helpless, riled or for some,
not wishing to care,
though somewhere,
hidden in a hollow
at the back of a head,
a dark is stirring
from its sleep,
getting ready to rise
from its bed. Elsewhere,
across a nation,
more and more screams
become stuck
in the throats of the dead.
Something isn't right.
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